Cold
by Chemical Ghost
Summary: AU vignette, LV. Nothing is as frigid as a frozen heart. Kleenex warning.


Disclaimer: Star Wars does not belong to me. Obviously.

Don't say it; I know I should be working on Blood and Venom, but I couldn't help it; this practically wrote itself.

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Nobody knows he is gone. Nobody cares. Nobody will miss him. No one will miss him, because there is no one left for him. He has left forever. He will not return. He knows he cannot turn back, for he can never go home again after what he has done – an unspeakable, unforgivable act. So he walks on, alone.

The winds howl like enraged beasts, like haunted, tormented souls seeking vengeance. Their icy claws shred his skin, sinking into his flesh, piercing him to the bone. But he does not feel this. He does not feel the burn of the freezing air on his unprotected skin. He feels nothing, only numb everywhere. Perhaps that is why he is here.

Here, in this frozen wasteland. Some may describe the sparkling luminescence of the pure, untouched ice and snow under the evening starlight as beautiful, but he fails to see it in something so unfeeling. Unfeeling, just like him. Cold, unfeeling and silent, never speaking. Breathing not a single word even as his mind calls out, offering not a single answer as his mind screams the questions. The barren land beneath him simply smiles, enigmatic, as if withholding the vital answers he is now desperate for.

It is not just the ground he walks on – it's in the air as well, falling around him, coating pale, frozen skin with frost. But the frost is worse within. Cold, unfeeling and silent. White yet darkening to a dusky grey as the dying sun sheds its final rays, then a stormy grey-blue as darkness falls. Darkening like the frozen soul within.

Or perhaps it has long since turned to ebony. Yes, that must it. When had it begun? When had everything changed? When had he crossed the threshold? Was it on the fateful day he had discovered the harsh truth about himself, the dark secret of his identity? Was it the day he had committed his first dreadful act of murder? Or was it perhaps the day he had been born – the day he had killed his mother?

He had never known it, not until _after_. After he had done it. After he had given in to inner weakness and betrayed all. Everyone. Everything. Betrayed all with a single word. _Yes. _He hadn't wanted it. He had never wanted any of this. But the Dark One, his sire, had asked him the question. And he had said yes. He hadn't meant for it to happen, but something within had faded; something inside had broken and the words had slipped out.

The memory was vivid and striking, and it lingered in his mind, sometimes floating up again to remind him of his betrayal. To bask in his torment. To suck the life out of him. And he gave way to it every time. He remembered. He remembered the rage that drove him forward; that he channeled into his blows, lashing out at his deadly nemesis with all his might. He remembered the inevitability of death as he clung, cornered, to the edge of the gantry. He remembered the numbness that had overpowered him as he had found out. He remembered the denial, the attempt to negate it all in a futile attempt to stop the agony. He remembered staring at the endless shaft below, then into the empty eyes of the Sith Lord. Death in body…death in spirit. And, in a single moment of frailty, he had uttered the words. _Yes. I will join you. _

That had been the moment he had been defeated. That had been the moment he had defeated himself. The beginning of his spiral downwards. The first step of a journey to darkness. He could have stopped it had he taken a moment to think, had he taken a moment to remind himself of all he believed in and that what he was doing was wrong, but somehow he had closed his eyes, perchance the way one did as they drifted off into slumber.

A willful slave, he had submitted to his father's will, obeying his every whim in spite of the blood that stained his hands with every dark deed. When he had finally mustered up the strength to pry his eyes open, it had been too late. The darkness, filth and corruption that dwelled in his heart were there to stay. Somehow, he had died. He had known it the day he chose one death over another, yet he had forgotten. But Death, on her part, had not forgotten to claim what was hers.

Nothing was left of him. Outwardly, he looked the same, but inside he was just a shell left behind, a pale shadow of what he had once been. So he wanders. He wanders, now, across this glacial landscape, without a soul, without purpose. He is nothing. Life is nothing. It is empty. Nothing lies ahead. It closes with a dead end, so he staggers toward it.

It is dark now, a reflection of existence. The wind never ceases to howl. The unseen beasts grow fiercer. The wind's icy claws grow sharper, raking against his entire body. Yet he does not flinch, for it is nothing but the remains of his dead self. He walks on, despite the black nothing that gnaws away at his mind. He is not afraid of death because he has already met his own.

He opens his eyes. He does not know when he had blacked out. All he knows is that he lies prone on the ice-covered ground. Weak as his frostbitten body has become, he can still summon the strength to turn over. He has awakened to a fiery dawn. He burns under its ruthless glare. Hell has found him.

xXx

Lord Vader stares down, impassive, at the stiff, frozen body at his feet. He is gone, perhaps has been for hours. A flame of hope ignites as blue eyes open. They cast a wistful glance, then close again. Vader drops to his knees, gingerly touching the deathly pale face. The air is cold. Under the armor, he does not feel it. The ground is cold. Vader cannot feel it. His face is cold. Anakin can feel it.

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Comments? Criticism? Death threats?


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